


Words Unspoken

by Gemmiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cancer, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Grief, Loss, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, human cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmiel/pseuds/Gemmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean dies a very ordinary human death, with Castiel by his side.</p><p>Major character death and angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> Note the warnings-- major character death and major angst. Don't read if you don't want to cry. This little story is pure self-indulgence on my part; I lost someone to cancer (quite a few years ago now), and every so often I write something grim and mopey on the topic. I am no medical professional, and we never used hospice care, so please pardon me in advance if any details are wrong.

The worst part of being human was that he couldn’t save Dean.

Castiel had always expected that Dean would die at the hand of some random monster in a hunt, torn apart by claw or fang, scorched by flame or disemboweled by a wendigo. But instead it was something far more ordinary that took him down. At forty-five, he was diagnosed with stage four cancer, and given maybe— _maybe_ —a year to live.

He made it three months.

The gates of Hell had been slammed closed years ago, leaving no hope for demonic deals of any kind, and Heaven had long ago turned its back on the world. So modern medicine was Dean's only recourse, and it was woefully inadequate to the task. Sam was married by then, to a nice girl they’d saved from a dragon. Well, she was a woman, really, but considering he was a billion years old, Castiel thought of all humans as boys and girls. To him, Sam’s new wife was a girl, and the Winchesters were still boys, even though Dean was officially middle aged now.

It occurred to him that Dean would never make it to old age, and the thought sent him to his knees, begging for a miracle, in the first heartfelt prayer he’d offered up to Heaven in years. Unfortunately, no one was listening.

But Sam and his new wife had moved to California to start a “normal” life, with Dean’s blessing and encouragement, which meant that Dean had no one to help him except Cas. Of course Sam called and Skyped and visited when he could, but it was Cas who drove him to doctor appointments and sat beside him in the infusion center and held his head while he vomited into the toilet-- and cleaned up after him when he missed. 

Human bodies, Cas mused—trying for philosophical thoughts so as to avoid despairing ones—were one of his Father’s most amazing creations. And yet they were so terribly fragile. Something as simple as one cell could go wrong, and suddenly the whole organism would fall to pieces.

And Dean was collapsing rapidly. Cas could see it in the way the muscle seemed to melt off his sturdy frame, the way his once-abundant hair fell out in patches, the gauntness of his cheeks, the stoic misery in his eyes. Chemo and radiation treatments only seemed to make him worse. He’d been a strong, powerful man, and now he was weak. Feeble.

Cas wanted to rail at Heaven at the injustice of it all. He and Dean had lived together in the bunker for years now, but they’d never—well, their relationship had never quite moved forward. They both knew there was something powerful between them… a profound bond, as Cas had once put it. And yet they hadn’t quite dared to move on with it, because things were good the way they were, and taking a chance on something more meant taking a chance on losing one another. So they’d remained friends. Very good friends, friends who shared a residence, friends who worked side by side and shared just about everything. But nevertheless just friends.

Only now could Cas admit he’d wanted so much more. 

But now it was too late.

He did take to sleeping in Dean’s bed, more out of necessity than emotion. Someone had to be nearby, to help Dean to the bathroom, to clean up vomit, to talk softly to him in the night when the pain and discomfort got to be too much and he couldn’t sleep. But Dean was in no condition for a sexual relationship, or even to hear a profession of love without the words sounding like a reproach and a lost opportunity. So Cas slept beside him, despite sweat-soaked sheets and vomit and Dean’s broken moans and whimpers during the night, when exhaustion ripped down his barriers and forced him to admit the pain he felt. But the two of them were still just friends.

And yet so much more than friends. Even in his current disintegrating state, Dean was beautiful to Cas’ eyes. The words _I love you_ rose to the ex-angel’s lips a hundred times a day, but he always swallowed them back, knowing, with a sharp stab of regret, that he should have said them much earlier.

Sam called one day. He'd visited three times already since Dean's diagnosis, and he desperately wanted to be there for his brother, but his wife was almost eight months pregnant and had some health problems as a result. She couldn’t travel, and Sam didn’t dare leave her. Cas told him that it was okay, that there was nothing he could do anyway, and that his calls and texts meant the world to Dean. And they did. Dean was always a little brighter, a little happier, after he heard from Sammy, but it didn’t last long. He was already on the last long downward slide, and nothing could make a lasting impact.

Angelic healing powers, Cas thought, not without resentment, could have saved Dean. If he were still an angel…

But he wasn’t. He was helpless in the face of this disease, utterly incapable of saving the person he loved most in all the world.

In that, he was just like any other human.

Friends dropped in occasionally-- Charlie and Dorothy and Garth and various hunters-- and at first Dean was happy to see them, but before long he began to find their visits exhausting. They slowly stopped coming to the bunker, perhaps not as much because visiting was hard on Dean as because it was hard on them. Cas knew how difficult it was to see a formerly strong, vibrant man slowly wasting away to nothing, and he couldn't find it in his heart to blame them for staying away. 

Eventually Dean couldn’t traverse the fairly short distance from their bedroom to the kitchen. Worried, Cas helped him into Baby and drove him to the doctor, and he was put on oxygen. An oxygen machine crouched in the corner of the bedroom, humming, and Dean moved around the room connected to the machine by tubing, while nasal cannulae delivered the oxygen directly into his nostrils.

But his lungs were failing, and even pure oxygen wasn’t enough. The doctor drained the accumulated fluid off his lungs, and for a little while he breathed more easily. But before long the fluid had accumulated again, and this time the doctor thought there was fluid on his heart, too. They visited a cardiologist, who confirmed the diagnosis but told them gently there was no real point in operating, and that Dean probably wouldn’t survive the operation anyway.

Before long he stretched his long, pathetically thin form out in bed, and stayed there most of the time. Cas tried desperately to stave off impending starvation with tempting pastries and homemade soup and Ensure, but Dean just didn’t have much appetite left. Even with the pure oxygen flowing into his nostrils, he didn’t have the energy to hold books and read, and he couldn’t even work up any interest in watching _Dr. Sexy._

He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, and Cas could almost see the life running out of him. He suspected that if he still had his angelic vision, he’d see Dean’s soul seeping through his skin in a bright cloud, beginning to detach from his frail mortal flesh, readying itself for the long journey to Heaven.

In the sanctuary of the bedroom, Cas smiled and talked softly and held Dean’s hand, offering all the comfort he could.

Outside the bedroom, he cried—but only softly, making certain that Dean couldn’t hear him.

But he rarely cried, because he rarely left Dean’s side. He only left the bedroom to fetch food that Dean would hardly nibble at, or to occasionally attend to his own bodily needs, and every so often he noticed he reeked and took a thirty-second shower. Hospice care workers came and went, giving Dean pain medications, which fortunately kept him fairly comfortable. In that, at least, they were lucky. 

_It won’t be long now,_ a doctor intoned at last, and he called Sam. Sam’s wife had had some medical issues after the baby’s birth, so he hadn’t been able to leave her until now, but he told Cas that Cynthia and the baby would be okay for a couple of days, and that he was grabbing the first flight out. Cas went to Dean, who was sprawled on the bed, and told him, softly.

_Sam’s coming. He’s not bringing the baby, not this time. Remember I told you he and Cyn had a baby last week? A baby boy, with dark hair like Sam. They named it Dean, after you. Anyway, Sam is coming tonight, and he’ll bring pictures to show you, pictures of baby Dean. Okay?_

Dean nodded, and his mouth curved a little, but Cas wasn’t sure how much he understood. The drugs were necessarily heavy at this stage, and Dean’s mind was muddled due to lack of oxygen anyway—which was just as well, really. Cas wanted to tell him _I love you,_ wanted to say it so desperately it was a physical ache in his chest, but at this point he wasn’t sure Dean could understand him, or that he would care. The pain, he imagined, was all that Dean was really aware of now. 

He held Dean’s frail hand in his own, letting the loving touch of his hand say the words for him.

*****

During the afternoon, Dean began slipping away. His eyelids fell to half mast, and his head turned toward Cas, as if he were watching the other man. But there was no spark behind the dull green irises. His chest rose and fell in long, steady breaths, but there were no other signs of life.

Cas lay down in bed beside him, his hand wrapped around Dean’s unresponsive one. He knew that this was the end, and he knew, too, that Sam wasn’t going to get here in time. He’d taken care of Dean more or less alone all this time, and at the end, he was the only one here to say goodbye. The terrible weight of caring for a dying man was about to be lifted off his shoulders, despite the fact that he would have gladly borne this weight for the rest of his days.

But no. Dean was suffering, and it was time—past time—for him to go. This was, he tried to reassure himself, all part of his Father’s plan. A beautiful part, really, even if it was sometimes hard to see it that way when you were here on Earth, caught in the middle of it all. Death was a necessary part of life. He should be grateful to know that Dean was almost free of it.

But he didn’t feel grateful. He felt bereft.

Tears burned in his eyes, but he blinked them back fiercely. He wouldn’t cry in front of Dean. Not that Dean would know, not now. His breathing grew more ragged, more erratic, and Cas sat up, bent down, and brushed a kiss over his forehead.

His fingers were still entwined around Dean’s, as if he could keep the other man tethered to life by holding onto him. He sat motionless and watched as the uneven breaths slowed, and at last, quite undramatically, stopped. A small wet patch appeared on the sheets as Dean’s sphincters relaxed, and Cas knew that he was dead.

A raw, agonized sob burst past his control, and he bowed his head and sobbed. The words he'd held back for so long rose to his lips of their own accord.

“I love you,” he whispered, and cried harder.


End file.
